Actions and Their Consequences
by Jean Hicks
Summary: "If there isn't... if he never sees Sherlock's eyes again, never feels the warmth of his touch or smells his ridiculously expensive shampoo, at least he will be free of the ghosts." Three years later and John finally finds his own way of dealing with the Fall. Spoilers for Series 2, and warnings for suicidal themes, character death, and not so happy ever after. R&R, please!


**A/N: **A very short piece written as procrastination from studying... not too happy either. I'm sorry in advance, guys. Read and review and enjoy the ride!

* * *

Words barely reach through to him because his ears are full of white noise. "I have to see him." He grits out, teeth clenched. Mycroft makes some sort of dismissive noise and he bares his teeth like a wild animal backed into a corner. The older Holmes holds his hands up in surrender and steps aside.

A thick wool coat and blue scarf swirl into a hospital room. A blonde haired doctor lies deceptively peaceful in a hospital bed, rails pulled up and sheet tucked around him. Sherlock breaths and it's just a whispered name.

"John."

* * *

The ghosts are too much to live with. He's in the eyes of the people he passes, he's in the flat, he's an all-consuming presence that he cannot shake.

He walks on the edge of the building where he last saw his best friend alive.

The wind is blowing but he isn't afraid. He stretches his arms like the crucifixion and blinks into the rising sun. He breathes what he knows will be his last breath and steps off the ledge with an exhaled exaltation…

"Sherlock."

* * *

He shouldn't be alive. Sherlock is not stupid; he knows that John should be dead. John threw himself off of a roof.

(Though this argument isn't entirely valid, Sherlock had thrown himself off the same roof three years prior and he was very much alive.)

The detective waves the thought away. Logic didn't matter anymore. John is what matters. John needs to wake up, John needs to stop this. If John would just wake up, they could get through it and grow old together and all of the things Sherlock wanted. _A bit late for that, isn't it?_

"You have to fix him, Mycroft."

"I am no miracle worker, Sherlock."

He doesn't know if he's speaking to his brother or to his blogger.

"You have to try…"

* * *

Two days before he plans on ending it all, John has coffee with Molly. He's forgotten how pretty she is, how her hair shines and her eyes are bright as she makes small talk. John almost smiles. The emotion feels foreign on his face and he falters. He hasn't truly smiled in three years.

She reaches out and touches his hand lightly, bright eyes all too knowing. When it comes to people in pain, nothing gets past Molly. In this way she is Sherlock's antithesis. "It's okay to be happy, John. He would want it…"

John drinks his coffee and feels the warm weight of it in his throat. Molly bites her lip and furrows her brow, "Just try, John. Try to hold on a little longer." He gives her a sad smirk, throws a bill on the table for the coffee and gets up to leave.

"I'll try."

* * *

It has been two weeks. Sherlock sits by the bedside and grasps John's hand, even though John doesn't grasp it back. The steady hum of machinery creates a quiet sanctuary. He only goes home to shower and he eats when Mycroft forces him.

His excuses have been made, back from the dead—yes, yes, all very dull, please be angry later, I need to get to John. Most of his colleagues are angry enough that they are avoiding him, even if it means avoiding John as well. He is surprised when Mrs. Hudson knocks on the door.

She is wearing her purple dress and she looks like she's been crying. She walks across the hospital room and he turns to face her. The slap is sudden and it echoes, but it is not completely unexpected. "Sherlock Holmes, what have you done?" She scolds.

Hot, scalding tears prick Sherlock's eyes. They are not from the pain of Mrs. Hudson's hand.

Mrs. Hudson pulls him into her side and holds him while he cries. She smells of home and comfort and he's glad she's here, even though he will never admit it. She strokes her fingers through his hair and mutters comforting words as he repeats over and over again…

"I'm so sorry."

* * *

"You... you told me once... that you weren't a hero. Umm... There were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human... human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so... there. I was so alone... and I owe you so much. But please, there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me, don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this..."

* * *

John tries not to shake as he finishes his last blog post and sets the auto-submission. By this time tomorrow his blog will update and he will be dead. He will no longer have to hide from the ghost of Sherlock Holmes. He hopes that his friend will meet him on the other side, if there is such a thing. If there isn't, if he never sees Sherlock's eyes again, never feels the warmth of his touch or smells his ridiculously expensive shampoo, at least he will be free of the ghosts.

He stands and stares out the window. The screen of his computer illuminated in the darkness, blog counter still stuck at 1895 and the stark black text saying the words could never say to his best friend.

"I'm so sorry."

* * *

When the inevitable happens, Mycroft is in the room. Sherlock is still sitting vigil at the bed. John looks ragged and pale. Their hands are still together.

The machines start to falter and Sherlock startles. He turns and stares at his brother with wide eyes. "No." He says softly. "No… John."

Nurses rush in and the room is a few minutes of chaos. Sherlock is forced away and against the wall. "No." His voice is louder. "Mycroft fix it!"

"Sherlock…" Mycroft has a hold of him, when did that happen?

"John! Stop… no! John… I need you… stop this…" He's rambling, scrambling to get to the bed but Mycroft holds him, surprisingly strong despite Sherlock's continual jabs at his weight. "Stop…" The detective all but sobs and tears at his brother's arms.

The machines have gone silent. A nurse backs away with a sad look on her face. She glances at Mycroft and then notes the time on her watch.

Sherlock Holmes makes the sound of a keening animal, a primal howl of pain.

He falls to the floor.

He can't breathe.

His heart is breaking.

Mycroft holds him tighter.

* * *

There is a black headstone standing tall next to its twin. There are two graves. One is occupied, one is not. The winter wind cuts through the air and Sherlock Holmes stands in his wool coat and scarf, his eyes are sunken and his face is cold.

When John stood here he had a soliloquy, a grand revelation. The words Sherlock have never said die on his tongue. If he were to start talking now he would never stop. Instead he places a bough of wormwood over the dirt, a fitting offering, and then presses his hand to the marble.

He turns and walks away, eyes scanning the tree line.

He is alone.

* * *

**A/N: **If that worked right, if it made you sad, I'm sorry. (But that was my intention.) If you can't tell I'm a bit fond of post-Reichenbach reunions, but I wanted something not so happy-ever-after. Love it, hate it, please let me know. Oh! And quote came directly from _Sherlock_ obviously, not mine, no money.


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